Page 6 of Claimed By the Damned
But the alternative—stumbling back into the night, vulnerable and alone—is a death sentence. I don’t know what is worse: the fear of letting my guard down or the reality that, for once, I might not have to.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I am not bracing for the next blow, the next cruel word, the next reminder I am nothing but someone’s possession.
Right now, sitting on this couch, in a house that isn’t a prison, wrapped in warmth and quiet, with a man who hasn’t hurt me or demanded anything… an unfamiliar feeling surfaces. Maybe safety. Maybe just exhaustion pretending to be safety.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Chapter 4: Wolves at the Door
Lila
My body runs on fumes, but my mind refuses to shut down. Every muscle is locked tight, every nerve buzzes with the lingering dread that if I let my guard down, everything I’ve fought to escape will crash back down on me.
The scent of food drags me back to the present. My stomach clenches, but whether from hunger or unease, I’m not sure. Ryker drops a plate in front of me, the aroma hitting me first—something warm, rich, unmistakably homemade.
Scrambled eggs, toast, and crispy bacon; nothing fancy, but real food—solid, warm, unexpectedly settling. His green eyes flick over me in assessment before he flops onto the couch across from me.
"Eat," he grunts. "Before you pass out. That’d be a pain in the ass to deal with."
My stomach twists violently at the smell, a cruel mix of hunger and nausea battling for dominance. I hesitate, my fingers curling around the plate as if it might disappear. A single bite. That’s all. Just enough to take the edge off. But the second the food hits my tongue, my body betrays me—devouring it like a starving creature, despite every instinct screaming at me to stay guarded.
Ryker watches me, a strange expression on his face, not pity, not judgment, just… an observation. It’s unsettling, his quiet focus after the gentle care he just gave my feet. This house, him… none of it makes sense. The warmth, the food, the absence of immediate threat – it’s a disorientation I’m not equipped for. My mind struggles to categorize him, this place, failing to slot it into any familiar box of danger.
A man strides into the room, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans that look hastily pulledon. Droplets of water trail down his chest, disappearing into the defined ridges of his abs.
Without hesitation, he flops onto the couch beside me. The sudden movement makes me flinch, my body instinctively tensing. His gaze flickers to mine, his expression softening; he offers a kind, easy smile—maybe trying to soften the edges of my nerves. Then, as if diffusing the moment, he glances at the food, then at me. "You actually let Ryker cook? Damn, that’s bold. You sure it’s edible?"
Ryker’s lips twitch in his usual smirk, unfazed. “My cooking is an experience.”
From the bar, a third man lets out a low sigh, barely audible. "An experience in food poisoning, maybe," he murmurs, his voice quiet but carrying an edge of dry authority. He doesn't look away from me, but the subtle correction hangs in the air, a quiet assertion of order over Ryker's chaos.
He stands at the bar near the kitchen, arms crossed as he props himself against the edge, watching but saying nothing more. He must have been there for a while, unnoticed in my exhaustion. His sharp attention sweeps over me, calculating, gauging, a flicker of something unreadable in his hazel eyes before they settle into a cool, appraising stare. Not hostile, not yet, but weighted with a deliberate assessment that makes my skin prickle.
Ryker’s head turns toward my wary glance at the two men; he rolls his shoulders lazily. "Alright, Baby Girl, since you’re already looking at them like they’re gonna bite, let’s do this properly." He gestures between them. "These are my brothers—not by blood, but in every way that matters."
"We live together, work together here, and run Wicked Sanctuary together. It isn’t just a business; it’s the only family we’ve got. We handle the messy stuff for people who need things kept quiet." He gestures toward the damp-haired man. "That’sEthan. He keeps us from getting our asses handed to us by the Feds."
Ethan grins, leaning forward slightly, his gaze flicking between me and Ryker with lazy curiosity. "Alright, so who’s our guest?" His tone is light, but an underlying sharpness suggests calculations already running in his head.
A grin touches Ryker’s lips. "Lila."
Ethan nods, then looks back at me. "Well, nice to meet you, Lila. And just for the record, I prefer ‘cyber-security specialist.’ Sounds fancier."
Ryker ignores him and nods toward the other man. "And that over there, standing stiffly, is Bastian. He’s the one who keeps us in line—logistics, strategy. He attempts to stop us blowing ourselves up or landing in prison."
Bastian doesn’t nod. He just stares. A slow, deliberate once-over, cataloging my weaknesses in real time. His eyes are cold, precise, weighing the liability I might be. The air thickens between us, a silent challenge I can’t afford to lose.
Controlled and rigid, his posture speaks of a lifetime burying emotion beneath the surface. It’s not hostility, exactly, but not friendly, either—something colder,that sets my nerves on edge.
"And what exactly is this whole operation?" I ask, my voice hoarse from disuse, cracking slightly as I push through the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. My fingers tighten around the edge of the plate, anchoring myself to something solid.
Ryker leans back, propping his boots up on the coffee table like he owns the place, exuding a lazy confidence that screams danger, tightening the knot in my stomach. He stretches his arms behind his head, that mocking expression returning to his face as if he enjoys drawing this moment out. "Wicked Sanctuary," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a predatory satisfaction.
“Think of us as… specialized problem solvers. When powerful people have messes too big, too dirty, or too dangerous for anyone else to touch, they call us. We retrieve things that aren’t supposed to be retrieved, protect people who aren’t supposed to be protected, and sometimes," he pauses, the grin widening, "we make sure inconvenient situations... simply cease to exist. We operate in the gray areas others are too scared—or too smart—to step into."
I stop chewing, the bite of eggs turning to lead in my mouth as I process that. My mind races through every possible meaning behind his words, each one worse than the last. "So, mercenaries."
Ethan huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he shifts forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "We prefer ‘private contractors,’ but sure. Call it whatever makes you feel better." Amusement colors his voice, but something sharper lingers underneath, something that implies he’s been called worse things before.
